Forgivable
by MildredandBobbin
Summary: This was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and ignoring the emotional mess in which you leave your best friend (is he? Is he still Sherlock's best friend? It's hard to know anymore) seems to be how it's bloody done lately.


Title: Forgivable

Author: Mildredandbobbin

Summary: This was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and ignoring the emotional mess in which you leave your best friend (is he? Is he still Sherlock's best friend? It's hard to know anymore) seems to be how it's bloody done lately.

Rating: Mature

Length: 7967

Warnings: angst, coarse language, sexual scene

Author's notes: With a thousand thanks to Tsylvestris and Mid0Nz for the spur of the moment beta-reading of this monster, you guys are brilliant, truly. xo

Challenge 1: After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…

* * *

**Part 1 - John**

John can not bring himself to even look at Sherlock. He is that furious.

Once again the prat had nicked off without a by-your-leave and this time, _this fucking time_, he'd very nearly gotten himself killed, actually killed. For a fucking genius, he never fucking _thought_. And John had specifically fucking asked him to fucking wait and he fucking hadn't and then he'd fucking ended up locked in a crematorium incinerator and had been a button-push away from actually fucking dying this time. For fuck's sake.

Sherlock isn't even sorry. That's the thing that pisses off John the most. The idiot nearly lost his life, stupidly, needlessly, and he didn't even have the balls to admit he _might_ have been wrong, and _perhaps_ could have used some backup, and maybe, just _maybe_, next fucking time he should just FUCKING TELL JOHN WHERE HE WAS GOING. (His phone had had no reception; if he hadn't nipped out to grab something from the vending machine he wouldn't have gotten the text in time.)

John had been too furious even to yell at him. He'd unlocked the incinerator door and walked out. Walked. Out. Called Lestrade and an ambulance for the blackmailer-cum-attempted-killer, and then sat on the kerb and waited.

He was stupid to have even thought Sherlock might...come after him? Say something? Apologise? Acknowledge that what he'd done was just a bit not good? This was Sherlock Bloody Holmes and ignoring the emotional mess in which you leave your best friend (is he? is he still Sherlock's best friend? It's hard to know anymore) seems to be how it's bloody done lately.

Because tonight's debacle is just another example, isn't it? Another something to sweep under the carpet, delete in the mind-palace, pretend didn't even happen. Because John's feelings don't matter. Never have mattered.

They don't talk. Haven't talked.

John looks at Sherlock's reflection in the cab window. He too is looking away, out the other window.

The silence stretches between them, long and thin.

"Thank you," Sherlock says suddenly. "For...what you did." Entirely missing the point. As if this is why John is angry — because of an imposition and not the heart-pounding fear he has felt, once again, for Sherlock's safety. As if John might ever choose not to save Sherlock.

And John realises he still doesn't have a clue. "Forget it," he says.

* * *

John shuts the door to 221B behind him. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it up. Sherlock is too close, standing next to him.

His gaze is uncomfortably intense, looking through him with those odd, pale eyes. Feels as if he's scanning through John's skull to read every thought underneath. He's too close. John lifts his chin, meets his eyes, glares back. Stands, tense and silent. He's still angry, still furious, and Sherlock just _stares_ at him with that fucking unreadable expression. As if he hasn't a clue in the world why John might be a wee bit put out.

"You're angry."

Sarcastic response after sarcastic response flitter across John's mind but sarcasm is wasted on Sherlock.

"Yes," is what John says instead.

"Because I was almost killed and you almost didn't save me."

His blood begins to boil. "That, and the fact that the situation would have been entirely avoided if you'd just fucking waited one bloody, sodding minute and told me what you were bloody well up to!"

"We've been through that already. There wasn't time. I sent you a text."

John grits his teeth and goes to step past him, but Sherlock steps in front of him.

"What do you want me to say, John?"

John shuts his eyes; he's weary of this, this disconnect, this anger, this resentment. Weary. "It doesn't matter. It's fine. You're alive. It's fine." He moves to brush past Sherlock, but Sherlock grabs his upper arm, stops him.

"John."

He looks up and is pinned by an intense gaze and something so taut in Sherlock's expression that he's practically shaking with it.

His mouth is suddenly dry, something twists low inside his belly. He feels his fight-or-flight instinct engage, because he cannot handle the look Sherlock is giving him, not with—not the way he feels. He cannot _not _respond, not tonight. He wants to shake Sherlock. Wants to grab him and—

Sherlock takes a step and John's back is against the wall. Sherlock is too, too close. His body cants towards John and he leans in, palm pressed flat against the wall by his head.

He can hear his own heart, feel Sherlock's breath against his ear. He shivers.

He's not trapped here; he could push past him. He doesn't. He closes his eyes and feels Sherlock's fingertips touch against every second button on his shirt and stop on his belt.

His eyes open and Sherlock is right there, his gaze boring into him. And John knows what the question is and he should say no, and he should make Sherlock _ask_ it, at the very least, after everything (it's the very least he could bloody do), but he can't do either of those things and instead he licks his bottom lip and swallows.

The belt sticks as Sherlock slides it through the loops, tugs it free. A flick and John's jeans button is undone, another tug and the zip is down.

Sherlock's gaze does not relent, does not waver, and John cannot look away.

He feels Sherlock's fingers edge into the elastic of his pants, draw them down, _over_ his cock (erection, shit, he's hard already). Feels Sherlock tug roughly at his pants and trousers, pulling them lower, down off his hips with one hand.

His heart is hammering in his ears and he is frozen, absolutely frozen. He really doesn't know if this is something he even wants but his body is telling him it is (correction, it _is_ something he fucking wants, he's just not sure if it's something he _wants_ to want).

Sherlock's hand is large and warm and his touch makes John hiss and not once, not fucking once, does he take his eyes off of John's. So John stares back because this is the most he's had from Sherlock ever, the closest admission that the terrible, overwhelming _something_ that's been building between them since day one, is real and there, and he has no idea what it means but God, this is — he's hard and Sherlock's _hand_ and Sherlock is watching him like he's the most interesting thing in the whole bloody universe. John spreads his legs wider, leans against the wall for support as Sherlock takes him apart with slow, deliberate strokes. He clutches at Sherlock's arm with one hand, the other, splays against the wall. His breath, his pulse and the filthy sound of a hand (not his own) on his cock are the only things he can hear. Sherlock's eyes are locked on his face and his skin is vibrating and everything is coiled inside, tighter and tighter, all the anger and hurt and fear. _God._ He'd been so afraid —

He's close. He grips Sherlock tighter, leaning into him, bending forward; he should be embarrassed by the sounds he's making, the way he's fucking into Sherlock's fist, but he can't give a fuck right now because there's a warm hand on his cock and Sherlock is about to bring him off and he's whimpering and making small sounds and he bites his lip to hold them in and he sees — Sherlock bites his lip too, his eyelids flicker just for a moment — And the coiled spring snaps, shatters, and he swears and gasps and shudders because he is coming, coming in Sherlock's hand and what the fuck is even —

He gasps. "Sher- Ah-"

Sherlock holds him there for a long moment, and then John shifts back and Sherlock releases him. His heart is still pounding too fast, he gulps air, looks up and locks eyes with Sherlock again.

Sherlock straightens, lips pressed tight. He holds his hand away from his body. His palm and his fingers are covered in John's semen. He stares at John and then turns on his heel.

"Sherlock—" He's hoping the rest of this sentence will figure itself out because this is all too much, there is too much to process at this exact point of time.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock says without turning and disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

John tucks himself away and sags into a chair at the kitchen table. Right. Something else they're not going to talk about then.

* * *

John does not sleep very well that night.

* * *

Sherlock is in the kitchen when John comes down the next morning. He is dressed immaculately, as if he's ready for a crime scene instead of a post-case fugue.

John realises that this is how they are going to play this: ignore it and pretend it never happened. Fine.

Sherlock is bent over his microscope; something repulsive-smelling is smeared on the slides and in the petri dishes next to him.

"Good morning," John peers at one of the petri dishes. "Fungus today, is it?"

"Bread mould," says Sherlock, not looking up. "Specifically, Penicillium."

John makes himself breakfast (checking the bread carefully) and sits at the table. Steam rises in a curl from the first cup of tea of the morning. He chews his toast without tasting it. He watches Sherlock through the steam, over the rim of the mug.

Sherlock continues to work on his experiment. He acts as if nothing happened last night. Nothing at all. It is galling in the extreme.

"So," says John at last, because he can take this no longer, this pretending it never happened. "Are we going to talk about last night? Yesterday?"

Sherlock glances up, expression perfectly calm, eyebrow raised — a touch derisively. John refuses to be cowed.

"What exactly did you wish to discuss?" Sherlock drawls.

Right. John squares his jaw. "Well, the handjob, for one."

Sherlock's expression doesn't even flicker. He sighs as if very bored already and turns back to his microscope. "You were obviously experiencing an extreme level of tension so I thought some form of release might be beneficial."

John stares at him."Tense. Yes. I was fucking tense. I nearly saw my best friend die — One second later, Sherlock, and you would have. One fucking second."

"As I said, you obviously needed relief." He changes slides. He doesn't look at John.

"Relief...That was you making amends, was it? 'Sorry I was a complete tit and nearly got myself incinerated, here let me jerk you off'?"

"Well...crudely put but essentially, yes." He frowns, just slightly, as if John is an annoying but ignorable distraction.

John is not sure what to do with this information. He rubs his hand over his eyes.

"So you think that's okay, do you? Appropriate?"

"You certainly thought it was. Last night," says Sherlock. He turns his head towards John, eyebrow raised again.

John stares at him. Stares at his stupid superior expression, his total lack of emotion, his complete fucking inability to just —

John stands. He's going to do something, say something he'll regret. He needs to leave. He grabs his coat and his keys and yanks open the door.

He shuts the door behind him. He needs to get some air, do something away from Sherlock. He'll go for a walk. Go down to the shops. Pick up some groceries. He pats his trouser pockets.

Shit, forgot his wallet.

He steels himself and yanks open the door again.

And stops.

Sherlock's sterile surgical gloves lie discarded by the microscope, his elbows rest on the table. His face is buried in his hands, fingers dug deep in his hair. He looks— God, John has never seen Sherlock look so broken.

John swallows.

Sherlock lowers his hands. He raises his face and looks both startled and mortified.

"I forgot my wallet." His chest is tight. He sits, heavily, at the table.

Sherlock watches him and John is not sure how he didn't see it before, the desperation...and worse, underneath, the layer of misery. He sees the tremble in Sherlock's hand as he clenches it into a fist beside his microscope. John sees it now still, as he attempts to hide again, to smooth his features, present a calm facade — arrogant and haughty. John finally understands: this 'Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel' rubbish, it's all bullshit.

John's anger falls away.

"It's okay," he says, attempting a smile. "Um. I was going to. Um. Come back."

"Oh."

John studies his own hands for a moment. He can feel Sherlock watching him. And he wonders if maybe he could just forgive him. Now. Without talking, without apologies and endless round-about discussions. Just go back to how things were. Comfortable. Companionable. Tear away this thing between them, the resentment, the lack of trust, the bitterness, three years of loneliness, six months of blame. John realises he is the one who is holding on to it. He realises he hadn't really wanted Sherlock to talk, he'd wanted him to _listen_, to hear about all the pain John has been holding onto, to feel everything John has felt. To understand. To atone. Whereas Sherlock just wants everything to be normal. Sherlock just wants John again.

He looks up. Sherlock is still watching him. His experiment is forgotten. It is this fact that makes up John's mind.

He reaches out and takes Sherlock's clenched fist. He covers it with his hand. He rubs his thumb against the edge of Sherlock's. Slowly he feels Sherlock's hand relax. He raises his eyes and sees bewilderment, wonder, form on those sharp features. Sherlock presses his mouth into a tight line, turned down at the corners, and John sees his chin tense, the lines of his mouth become deeper and he knows — oh God — he knows, without even the suspicious brightness in Sherlock's eyes, knows what he's trying not to do—

In a moment he's circled the table and he's holding Sherlock, wrapping his arms around thin shoulders and pressing his face to dark curls. Holds him like he wanted to hold him the day he returned. Holds him the way he wanted to hold him yesterday when he pulled him from the incinerator. Holds him how he himself needs to be held.

They're a pair of fools, the both of them.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock's arms slip around his middle, return his embrace. John can feel him tremble, his face pressed to John's jumper, his sternum.

After a while he draws back and John loosens his hold. Sherlock stares up at him, pink spots on his cheeks, brow drawn together into a frown, but his face is open, bare and dearly vulnerable.

John smiles crookedly.

"It's okay," he says again. "All that, all that stuff — everything that happened. I suppose I wanted you to hurt the way I did. Um, do. Um. Needed to know that it isn't nothing to you too. That's all. It's okay. I know now."

Sherlock exhales a shaky breath. "John," he says. "I—" He swallows. "I will keep hurting you. I will be thoughtless and I will put what I think is right above all else." He bites his lip. "One day—you will get tired of being angry, and you will leave. I've already been emotionally compromised — I can't — I need to be able to bear it."

John feels a little shaky himself. He takes Sherlock's face in both his hands. He thinks his heart cannot take anymore.

"Idiot," John says. "Join the sodding club. How do you think I feel?"

Sherlock tenses and he glances away. John sees guilt. John sees defeat. Both big enough to rival his own.

He looks at each part of Sherlock's face: too-large mouth, high cheekbones that make his eyes look oddly angular, stupid floppy hair, thick eyebrows, prominent nose, weak public-school chin. All undeniably masculine. None of these parts alone make John's breath catch, but the whole, overlaid with time and personality, is what John sees now and what makes him feel such overwhelming affection, makes his knees feel just a bit weak. It is a little too much not to do something about.

He leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock's.

Sherlock's mouth is soft. He freezes for a second and then his lips part slightly under his. John hasn't given any thought to where he's going with this, but a kiss, about now, seems right. He grazes Sherlock's lips in a soft, tentative motion, a bit on the chaste side, but then he's never kissed a man before, and never kissed Sherlock before, and he is hesitant. But then Sherlock groans and his hands fly up to grip John's face in return, slide through his hair, and they are _kissing_, lips and tongue and teeth.

It's a bloody terrible kiss.

It really is, Sherlock opens his mouth too wide as if he's trying to eat John's lips and it's far too wet but, God, _enthusiasm_ — and the fact that it's Sherlock means it's not as off-putting as it might be, and John fights back against the onslaught, takes control, calms the kiss but deepens it. Tongues slide against each other, and John pushes Sherlock back, nudges a knee between his thighs on the chair. He is interested, more than interested and getting closer seems the ideal option.

Sherlock's hand fists in his jumper, his other grips his hair. He groans and the sound against John's mouth makes him groan too. He pulls back, panting, and Sherlock is staring up at him, lips kiss-red, a flush on his cheekbones, and his eyes wide and glazed.

"John," Sherlock says breathlessly.

John's mouth stretches into a grin of its own accord. "Yeah?"

Sherlock stands, catches John's face in his hands and kisses him again, slower this time, better.

John's hand is in his hair, at the nape of his neck. His other hand slides to Sherlock's hip and they press closer.

John pulls back again and gasps, half laughing. He takes a step backwards and rubs his face, raises his eyebrows. God. He just snogged Sherlock. He wants to keep snogging Sherlock. Mirth bubbles up inside him.

"Well. I wasn't expecting any of this, this morning," he says.

Sherlock looks at him, wonder in his expression but something else too as his eyes flicker over his face but then the hint of tension clears.

"I want you to come to bed with me, now," Sherlock says.

Oh. Bed. Oh. Even as John's face heats he feels his cock swell. He licks his lips. He takes a breath, squares his shoulders.

"All right," he says. He grins. "All right, yeah, why the fuck not?"

* * *

Sherlock is a very quick learner and his kisses are spot on perfect now. John grips his hips and pulls him closer on the bed. They move against each other agitatedly, trying to get their bodies closer as well as their mouths, their tongues; crawl inside each other's clothes, their skins.

John hasn't made out like this for a very long time. His stomach tingles in anticipation and he feels about as nervous now as he did then, in the back of his dad's car with Susanne Gillam. He feels like a teenager again and grins against Sherlock's mouth at the thought. Sherlock smiles against his lips in return and cants his hips against his thigh.

He hadn't _known_. He hadn't known that Sherlock felt like this. It makes everything different. Nothing is easier, but possibly it is okay, because Sherlock is holding him tight and kissing him and making sounds that are doing very wicked things to John's libido. He edges a knee between Sherlock's; he wants to be close, closer, every part of him pressed against Sherlock, to keep kissing and having his full, complete attention. He wants other things too, he just needs to work up to them.

Sherlock fondles his arse and it feels just as good as it should.

He slides his fingers under the waistband of Sherlock's trousers, his pants. He feels the smooth skin, a nice firmness. He squeezes.

* * *

Sherlock's hand is on him again, Sherlock's knee is between his and Sherlock is leaning over him and watching him but this time, this time Sherlock is coming undone under _his_ fingers too and Sherlock is panting and breathless as well. They stroke each other roughly in time, a jerking rhythm of stroke and gasp and murmured word. John curses, Sherlock begs.

John smooths Sherlock's mess of hair with his free hand and looks at him in wonder. To think he nearly missed this, to see Sherlock lost in pleasure, to be the utter centre of what focus remains. It sends something sharp and powerful through John and he can't quite focus either.

He stares at Sherlock and his chest hurts. Oh. Sherlock was right, he is an idiot. It is all so simple really.

* * *

It is late, much later and John lies in a comfortable post-orgasmic haze. Sherlock's hand is still on his cock and his hand is still on Sherlock's, sticky, softening. They are half-dressed, kissed-out, shagged-out, and John still wants to feel Sherlock against his skin. Sherlock crumples against him on the bed, hooking his leg over John's calf, splaying his own sticky hand on John's chest.

John exhales deeply, a gust of laughter.

Sherlock's mouth twitches against his shoulder.

"I'm going to sleep a bit now, okay?" John says.

Sherlock grunts and shifts closer. John wraps his arm around him and holds him near. _Bloody hell_ is all he can think as he shuts his eyes and happily dozes off.

* * *

**Part 2 - Sherlock**

Sherlock stares out the cab window. His fingers tense against the door handle.

John is angry.

John is angry and John saved him.

John is angry and John saved him and Sherlock thought...this time Sherlock thought John might not make it in time. No bullet-through-the-cabbie moment.

And now John is angry.

With reason, Sherlock supposes. John is still holding a grudge over him faking his death. Sherlock supposes this must have raised that particular issue again. Emotional issue. Issues.

John hasn't forgiven him.

Sherlock watches John watching him through the reflections of their windows.

Sherlock had never been so glad to see anyone before in his life. It wasn't the first time he'd felt that emotion in connection with John. Relief. Not sentiment.

John. Brow creased. Jaw clenched. Fist, clenched on knee. Wound tight like a spring.

It is Sherlock's fault, of course. He doesn't know what to say to make it right. He tried 'sorry', at the start, when he returned, but that wasn't what John wanted to hear. Not then. Maybe now, but Sherlock won't say it now. Not when it cost him so much to say it the first time and was so emphatically rejected.

Besides he's _not_ sorry. Not for that, not for faking his death and hiding away and saving John's life. He'll never be sorry for that. It was necessary. Vital. He cannot be sorry for that.

Sorry for making John look pale and drawn, making more lines on that already-crumpled face, adding more grey to already-grey-shot blond hair. Yes. For that. Sorry for John's sleepness nights and John's nightmares and so many evenings John'd had to spend alone at Baker Street. Yes and yes.

Sorry that John doesn't talk to him like he did before. Sorry that John doesn't trust him like he did before.

Sorry they are broken.

Sherlock cannot say these things. They stick in his throat and his heart pounds and John looks too angry, too distant, and Sherlock finds something else to say instead. If anything.

John feels he has something to apologise for now too. What? Sherlock had been right — it had been Smith, just as he'd suspected, and John had followed, hadn't he?

A little too slow.

Might have been too late.

And John would have been left alone. Again.

"Thank you," he hears himself say. "For...what you did."

"Forget it." John's voice is tight.

* * *

John is being ridiculous, Sherlock decides, as he marches up the stairs like the compact thundercloud of angry army doctor that he is. (Sherlock can bear John's silent seething even less than his fury. His fury is better because then John is incandescent and something splendid. His silent resentment crawls along the back of Sherlock's neck and makes him feel guilty. He dislikes the emotion of guilt most of all. The adrenalin hasn't worn off either and it's making him twitchy.)

"You're angry," he says once they are inside the door to their flat.

"Yes," John says, short and blunt.

Frustrating. Sherlock states what he sees as the reason. "Because I was almost killed and you almost didn't save me."

John rounds on him. "That, and the fact that the situation would have been entirely avoided if you'd just fucking waited one bloody, sodding minute and told me what you were bloody well up to!"

Righteous indignation flares. "We've been through that already. There wasn't time. I sent you a text."

John grits his teeth and goes to step past him, but Sherlock steps in front of him.

"What do you want me to say, John?" What, John? What? What? John is furious still and Sherlock wants to slide his fingers under his jumper and be so close that John becomes a part of him, just as he always wants to when John has been particularly marvellous. (And John did save his life, again, that is particularly marvellous). He hasn't taken that step yet (never will); John holds his perceived sexual identity between them like an amulet. A boundary that must not be crossed. John can be frustratingly, completely ridiculous. Gay, not gay. What does it matter? It's _John_ Sherlock wants and he hasn't felt this twitching, curling, itching desire for anyone else since before the drugs, before the work. John is part of the work though, so perhaps that explains it.

John shuts his eyes as if he's had enough and Sherlock's mouth feels unaccountably dry. This is John's 'I'm not even going to bother explaining this' face.

"It doesn't matter. It's fine. You're alive. It's fine."

He sounds weary and defeated and it makes Sherlock's stomach clench. He knows that one day John will have had enough. He thinks that maybe today is that day. John moves to brush past Sherlock, but Sherlock grabs his upper arm, stops him. This can't be it. This can't be that day.

"John."

His chest hurts and he wants to say, don't, don't hate me, I make mistakes and I didn't mean to hurt you and you never used to mind when I did stupid, reckless things. Don't leave. He can't say these things. The words won't come out. He stares at John's wonderful, tired, worried face, the layer of unhappiness, as if somehow he can just make him see—

John stares back and it makes something twist low in Sherlock's belly and shiver up his spine. That same desperate urge returns, to know every millimetre of his face, to smooth every line, lick every curve, sink into John's pores and be so close there's not a molecule between them.

John's pupils dilate. His tongue darts out to wet his thin lips. Sherlock wants to know what John tastes like.

Sherlock is suddenly, intensely tired of feeling guilty. He is annoyed by John's anger, by his resentment, by his insistence that Sherlock behave in a certain way, jump through impossible hoops, and for what? John won't ever, ever acknowledge this attraction between them (not now, not now that he avoids Sherlock, can barely speak to him without an edge in his voice). The warmth and companionship he'd revisited a thousand times while he was away has not been forthcoming.

Sherlock crowds John back against the wall. He is flustered; Sherlock is crossing accepted boundaries now. He knows he is too close, that he is pushing, but his body gravitates towards John and he leans in close, braces himself with his palm flat against the wall.

Sherlock's heart is beating too fast. His breathing elevates. He sees John shiver and close his eyes. He has wondered before if ever he or John would cross the line they've balanced on for so many years. John will leave anyway. Sherlock thinks he has nothing to lose.

Sherlock reaches forward and and dances his fingers down the front of John's shirt. He stops at his belt and John's eyes open and he stares up at Sherlock and he is beautiful. Beautiful with his pupils blown wide, a blush threatening his cheeks, his lips parted, and every wonderfully expressive line (is this what the women see? No they don't _see,_ otherwise they would never, never let him go). Sherlock has no plan. He has no purpose, but he doesn't want to stop this because for the first time since he returned (since he ran through London handcuffed to John), John is looking at him with something other than reproach. Something that hints, implies, that Sherlock is stunning and brilliant.

The air sings between them. John licks his bottom lip and swallows.

Sherlock stares at John's face and he cannot look away, not as he undoes John's jeans, not as his fingers edge into the elastic of his pants (John is erect. John is hard. John _wants_ this). He tugs John's pants and trousers down to his thighs.

John is very still and Sherlock hopes this risk, this appallingly uncalculated risk, will prove successful. Sherlock closes his hand over John's erect penis. It is hard and satisfactorily shaped and Sherlock marvels at the feel of it in his hand and the look in John's eyes (startled-aroused-willing), the sound he makes (small-compressed-restrained).

John's face as he's slowly brought to orgasm is astonishing in its complexity, its raw, naked vulnerability and Sherlock is so very glad to see this expression replace the drawn resignation that's been there for far too long. He cannot look away. He records every moment and stores it, keeps it. How John sounds, how John feels, his expression at every instant. His own body seems to vibrate in sympathy with John's, a tight, furling in mid- to lower section, blood flow diverted; he parts his legs and shifts at the enjoyable discomfort.

John grips Sherlock tighter as he leans into him. He is bent forward and he thrusts now into Sherlock's hand. It is almost an embrace. John whimpers and tries to muffle the sound he makes but it runs down Sherlock's spine straight to his groin and Sherlock bites his lip too, his eyelids flicker just for a moment —And then John swears and gasps and shudders and he comes on Sherlock's hand, over his trousers —

John gasps. "Sher- Ah-"

Sherlock's heart pounds he holds him there for a long moment (beautiful John, his John, he did this, he made John feel like this, this must be good, it has to be) and then John shifts back, and with a jolt, Sherlock releases him. John takes in a gulp of air, looks up and locks eyes with Sherlock again.

Sherlock cannot— He stares at John for a long moment, panic mounting inside, his own arousal rude and insistent. He flees.

"Sherlock—"

He can't.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock manages and makes it to his room, shuts the door behind him.

* * *

In the shower, Sherlock leans his forehead against the tiles and masturbates with quick efficacy. He sees John's parted lips, his flushed skin, his eyes wide with desire (desire for him, for his touch), he smells John's skin, he smells John's ejaculate. He tastes John, still on his fingers. He orgasms and the sensation leaves him shaking, weak. He stands in the spray for longer than is necessary.

He remembers John's expression afterwards: shocked, startled, embarrassed. He doesn't want to think about what he's done. He doesn't want to think about what John will do. He would really rather not think at all.

* * *

Sherlock gives up on sleep. He gets up and dresses, choosing his clothes carefully. He cannot face John in his dressing gown and pyjamas today.

He dresses and he schools his expression and sets up an experiment.

He does not note the time John finally comes down for breakfast, because he has not been checking the time. Repeatedly. (08:03:42 am). There are one hundred six possible ways John may feasibly react, two with the highest probability: ignore or discuss. Sherlock is hoping for ignore.

"Good morning," John says. Sherlock can feel his proximity prickle down his right arm as he peers at one of Sherlock's waiting petri dishes. "Fungus today, is it?"

"Bread mould," says Sherlock. He doesn't trust himself to look up. "Specifically, Penicillium." John does not bring up his sexual advance, acts as if nothing has happened. Sherlock relaxes minutely.

John makes himself breakfast and sits at the table. Sherlock is tightly strung. He holds himself taut. Every one of John's actions seems to register on his skin like a vibration. He tries to block him out. Focus on the microscope, focus on the patterns forming, the cells multiplying. He pulls himself inward, inside a hard outer-casing, distances, removes.

"So," says John, his tone brittle (Sherlock feels brittle). "Are we going to talk about last night? Yesterday?" Sherlock's stomach drops.

Sherlock glances up, keeps his expression perfectly calm. Raises an eyebrow (defence mechanism, arrogance, learned at age nine). John responds (flushes slightly) but doesn't look away. Brave. Refuses to be cowed. (This itself batters at Sherlock's fortification).

"What exactly did you wish to discuss?" Why? Why do they have to talk about it? No good will come of talking about it. Sherlock will say the wrong thing.

John squares his jaw. "Well, the handjob, for one."

Sherlock's heart is pounding and he feels panic rising, but he keeps his expression carefully neutral. Deflect, dismiss, avoid. He sighs, hoping to sound as if he's very bored already, and turns back to his microscope. "You were obviously experiencing an extreme level of tension so I thought some form of release might be beneficial."

John stares at him."Tense. Yes. I was fucking tense. I nearly saw my best friend die —One second later, Sherlock, and you would have. One fucking second."

The words batter at him. "As I said, you obviously needed relief." He changes slides. He doesn't look at John. He is pleased to note his hands aren't shaking.

"Relief...That was you making amends, was it? 'Sorry I was a complete tit and nearly got myself incinerated, here let me jerk you off'?" Yes, that was exactly it. That and Sherlock had waited so very long and had wanted something human, something intimate, something not at all like John's scalding anger.

"Well...crudely put, but essentially, yes." He wishes John would just stop. He asks too much.

John rubs his hand over his eyes. He gives no quarter. "So you think that's okay, do you? Appropriate?"

Sherlock feels the shock of the blow. Inappropriate, of course. Stupid to think this may have brought them closer, bridged the gap between them. Stupid to think giving John an orgasm would make him look upon him more kindly. Sherlock feels a lump in his throat and he lashes out, hits back. "You certainly thought it was. Last night," he says coolly, coldly (don't let him see, never let them see). He hides behind disdain and turns his head towards John, eyebrow raised again.

John stares at him. _You machine._ Sherlock hears the words as if John had just repeated them.

John stands.

John is leaving.

John is leaving.

Sherlock watches him pull on his coat, pick up his keys, his phone, stuff them in his pockets. He hesitates, one, two, two point four seconds, at the door and then pulls it open.

Sherlock watches the door close.

He exhales the breath he'd been holding, tugs off his latex gloves and sinks his face into his hands. His chest is tight. He wants to collapse upon himself, to shrink away from these stimuli. He feels the tremor and tries to stop it, to hold it in, hold himself in one piece. His armour fails him. In the gaping absence of John his wits return, he thinks painfully clearly. He grabs at his hair, worries his eyes with the heels of his hands.

His indignant, defensive words still linger, bitter, on his tongue.

Wrong, Sherlock.

Bit not good, Sherlock.

And now John has left. Why? To get some air? To stop himself from saying... what? Still angry.

Last night had been a mistake. Sherlock had miscalculated.

A line was crossed last night that John cannot ignore. John does not want to cross the line. John wants to not want Sherlock, John wants — what does John want? What? Abject misery, a grovelling apology? Sherlock won't. He can't. To _talk_ about it? Again, can't, won't. John asks too much.

How? What can he say? He'll mess it up. He'll say the wrong thing. The words stick. His heart hammers too loudly and he cannot get the words out.

He hates feeling like this. He hates it.

So John will leave.

John has gone.

There is an awful stinging in his eyes, his throat, his chest.

He hears a sound.

He raises his head.

John is standing in the doorway.

John is staring at him.

"I forgot my wallet," says John. He sounds breathless. He sits, heavily, at the table.

Sherlock gapes, mortified, exposed. He tries to retreat, regroup. He can't seem to. John has flayed him.

His hand is shaking and he clenches it into a fist beside his microscope.

He sees something change.

John's anger falls away.

"It's okay," John says, attempting a smile. "Um. I was going to. Um. Come back."

"Oh." Sherlock does not understand. He can't comprehend.

John studies his own hands for a moment. He looks up.

He reaches out and places his hand, warm and gentle over Sherlock's clenched fist. Sherlock feels his thumb, gently rub against his own. He feels the tension begin to ebb.

Under this gentle assault, this one small kindness, Sherlock is completely disarmed. There is no hope. Sherlock feels the prickle behind his eyes, the thickness in his throat and his mouth turns down— he feels the quiver, the threat of this indignity heaped upon all else.

But then, suddenly, John is there, John has circled the table and he's _there_ and Sherlock is enveloped in jumper and warm, capable strength. He feels John's mouth, his nose against his hair. He feels John's chest rise and fall, with each breath against his scalp. It is too much. Too much.

Slowly, carefully, Sherlock's arms slip around his middle, return his embrace. He presses his face into John's warm, soft middle and he shakes with relief and wonder.

This. This cannot last, and gathering some dignity, Sherlock draws back. John loosens his hold. Sherlock stares up at him and sees open, unvarnished fondness. Affection.

_John_, his heart sings. Ridiculous.

John smiles crookedly.

"It's okay," he says again. "All that, all that stuff— everything that happened. I suppose I wanted you to hurt the way I did. Um, do. Um. Needed to know that it isn't nothing to you, too. That's all. It's okay. I know now."

Sherlock exhales a shaky breath. This sudden unequivocal forgiveness is too much. He feels he needs to temper it, to warn John. The responsibility is too much. "John," he says. "I—" He swallows. "I will keep hurting you. I will be thoughtless and I will put what I think is right above all else." He bites his lip, panic rising along with the full implications of allowing himself to be so exposed. "One day— you will get tired of being angry, and you will leave. I've already been emotionally compromised— I can't— I need to be able to bear it."

John looks at him so, so tenderly, so kindly. His hands are warm and they hold him, firm and capable. They give no quarter and Sherlock realises that he cannot avoid this. He wants to bury his face in John's jumper again and hold him tight.

"Idiot," John says fondly, firmly, with an edge of steel, residual frustration, anger and concern all rolled into a tempered edge. "Join the sodding club. How do you think I feel?"

Sherlock does know. He knows. He knows but he cannot change what he did, so what can he do about it? What good does feeling awful, feeling guilty do, except clamp his mouth shut, make him feel self-righteous resentment and render him emotionally distant? He doesn't say this.

Maybe John sees some of this though because his brow crinkles and he stares at Sherlock for a long moment and without warning he leans in and presses his lips to Sherlock's.

Sherlock is too startled to move for a moment, but then his lips part slightly under the gentle press of John's. Everything narrows to this minute point of contact and Sherlock is suddenly, not only flooded with data but needs more, more. He groans and his hands fly up to cup John's face, hold, touch, pull him closer, his hair is soft, very soft, oh _and more, _lips and tongue and teeth and Sherlock wants _everything_ all at once. He wants to taste John and feel John's tongue and crawl inside his mouth and it's messy and his teeth knock against John's and for a moment it's as if they are wrestling- John..._Oh..._John, wonderful (masterful) John, somehow directs, calms, contains and guides. John. John.

Safe.

The kiss is deeper now, John's tongue slides, slow and sensuous against his own. Less frantic, less urgent but oh so much more satisfying. John pushes Sherlock back, looms over him with a knee between his thighs on the chair.

Sherlock's hand fists in his jumper, his other grips his hair. He groans and John groans too. He pulls back, panting and Sherlock stares up at him; John is utterly breathtaking.

"John," Sherlock says (indeed, breathless).

John's mouth stretches into a grin. "Yeah?"

John. John. John. Sherlock's body is acting of its own accord. He stands, catches John's face in his hands and kisses him again, slower this time, careful — reading cues on how he likes (or doesn't like) it, he aims to learn him. He wants to press up against John, wants to be so close he can feel his pulse against his skin. He wants to taste every inch and touch every square millimetre of epidermis.

John's hand is in his hair, at the nape of his neck. His other hand is on his hip and Sherlock is aware of every point on his torso that makes contact with John.

John pulls back again and it's with a gasp of laughter, gorgeously intimate. It is the happiest sound Sherlock has heard from him in too long (since before he left). He takes a step back (no, no, no) and rubs his face, raises his eyebrows, looking thoroughly, delightfully bemused.

"Well. I wasn't expecting any of this, this morning," he says.

Sherlock studies his face and is relieved to see there is no trace of embarrassment or, worse, disgust.

"I want you to come to bed with me, now," Sherlock says before he can think better of it, the thought instantly wonderful and terrifying.

John's cheeks bloom (a delightful) pink. His tongue darts out to lick at his bottom lip. He takes a breath, steadies himself (ever the soldier).

"All right," he says. He grins. "All right, yeah, why the fuck not?"

* * *

They tangle together on the bed. John kisses him and kisses him and Sherlock kisses back, worming his way closer, wrapping his limbs around John in every way he can. They writhe and rut together, rolling each other over, tugging each other closer. They must look ridiculous and Sherlock feels John grin against his mouth as if he shares the thought. Sherlock smiles against his lips in return.

The full length of John's body is pressed completely against him and Sherlock wants (needs) to be closer. John's hand is on Sherlock's waistband and it creeps up under the edge of his shirt; John is pushing his own boundaries, every inch a personal triumph for Sherlock. He takes pride in every whimper, every sigh, every moan he can elicit. He cups the globe of John's right buttock, massaging it, feeling the shape of it. He is impatient to _know_ but he is hesitant too, for all he wants every inch of John. He needs to wait, can't get too far ahead, can't scare John off. Besides there is data still to catalogue about John's lips, his mouth, the way he kisses, the way he tastes, sighs, sounds. This is wondrously new, all of it. No amount of theoretical knowledge has prepared him for the actuality, the practicality of being physically intimate with John Watson. Touch, pulse rate, brain chemistry are all quantifiable but the emotions are not and Sherlock rides on the wave of them, building, then cresting, breaking and ebbing only to build again.

John's hand slips below his waistband and Sherlock shivers when he squeezes his arse.

* * *

Sherlock finds it exceptionally hard to breath. It is impossible to think. Too many stimuli, all at once, and all John. It is all John's doing and John is touching him and he can't manage to think about how it feels to touch John when he's so busy concentrating on how it feels to be touched _by _ John.

John is looking up at him wordlessly, breathing heavily and with that same painful look of affection as he takes Sherlock apart. It makes Sherlock's chest hurt along with this glowing and dreadfully sharp arousal. He thinks he might break.

"_John_," he pleads as John's hand takes him one stroke closer to the edge. As his hand makes John suck in a breath and arch into his grip in return. His eyes never leave Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock, fuck, I love you, Sherlock, God, oh fuck," John gasps.

* * *

It is late, much later and Sherlock is floating in the post-orgasmic daze of oxytocin and dopamine. His hand is still on John's cock and John's hand is still on his. The evidence of their recent coupling is still upon their bodies. Sherlock splays himself over John. He spreads his hand over John's heart, still sticky with their combined ejaculate.

John huffs a laugh.

Sherlock's mouth twitches against his shoulder.

"I'm going to sleep a bit now, okay?" John says.

Sherlock shifts closer. It seems absurd to feel this happy, so suddenly.

Sherlock holds John while he sleeps. He does not feel equipped for this change in their relationship. It is undoubtedly a change for the better, however, so he reroutes the panic and compresses it into a small space in his mind-palace and instead spends some time rearranging, to make room for all the new John-data. The mantelpiece on the fireplace in his mind-palace, in particular, is sagging with all the new John-accoutrements.

John breathes, relaxed. No longer furious, no longer resentful, no longer bitter. Somehow he has banished these emotions that were once so tangible to Sherlock that they were sharp like knives. It is as if he has just simply decided not to, simply decided to forgive. And for that alone Sherlock thinks John is marvellous.

Sherlock doesn't understand these things, these nebulous emotions. He understands facts and data. He makes connections and he observes.

He observes John. John is beside him, John is relaxed. John is still holding him.

Sherlock breathes.

The end.


End file.
